


Special Relativity

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:52:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a man in Sherlock's life who simply does not make sense. Neither do the friends he keeps or the little blue box he travels in. But that's fine, because Sherlock rather likes him that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Relativity

Bored.

Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.

John had heard the word easily two hundred times since waking up. Frankly, it didn’t even sound like a word any more. It barely made sense. It was just a noise his impossible flatmate said in the clear delusion that the string of phonemes held some sort of magical power that would suddenly make everything more exciting.

He’d stopped listening to Sherlock’s noises after about a quarter of an hour. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, and counting the amount of times one person could possibly repeat the same word didn’t exactly seem like John’s idea of an entertaining afternoon.

It would seem, however, that his initial assessment might have needed some work. Either repeating the word ‘bored’ often enough did hold some sort of magical power, or the man was a walking (sulking) coincidence machine. After what, if John had been forced to place a number on it, had been Sherlock's 500th time of declaring his current state of being, he sat bolt upright at a speed that would have made any other person pass out. Instead, he glared at the direction of the kitchen for a few moments before jumping to his feet. Barely taking the time to grab his coat, he rushed out the door, leaving the flat mercifully quiet.

For a few brief moments, John delighted in his flatmate having found something to do. And then he realised that his flatmate had found something to do, which only ever ended badly. Forgetting about the tea he had just made, John rushed down the stairs after him. What he found in the small patch of dirt that passed for a garden in this area of London was Sherlock examining a large, blue box.

He watched, leaning against the jamb, as Sherlock lightly brushed his fingers across the wood, occasionally looking up in awe at the lettering on the top of the blue monolith.

_Police Public Call Box_

Finally, after Sherlock had circled the box twice, John spoke up.

“Are you going to let us in, or what?” he asked easily.

Sherlock seemed to snap out of his daze and shot his attention to John.

“Right. Yes,” he said.

Without his usual flare when doing something he thought amazing, Sherlock pulled his modest key ring from his pocket and found the correct one – small and simple – and unlocked the door. He and John quickly stepped inside, finding a man in a leather jacket and his blonde companion laughing amongst themselves at some joke unheard.

Sherlock let the door shut loudly, drawing attention to himself and John, standing on the edge of the console room.

“Where are we off to today?” he asked, finally stepping forward.

The duo at the console both looked up quickly, the man affecting a quick but dishonest smile.

“And who might you be?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned for just an instant before putting on a smile of his own. “Sherlock Holmes,” he replied.

“Really?” asked the box’s owner. “Imagine that. Sherlock Holmes in my TARDIS.” He dropped his smile and crossed his arms over his chest. “How did you get in here?” His tone was suddenly hard, as though interrogating a suspect.

Sherlock began to circle the console, seeming to pay more attention to it than to the man running it. “I know all about you, _Doctor_. And you, Rose Tyler.”

The girl called Rose narrowed her eyes at him. “Sherlock Holmes?” she asked. “You’re called Sherlock Holmes? Like, actually, that’s what your parents called you?” She pointed at John. “And let me guess?”

“John Watson,” he interrupted with his friendliest smile. “I… I’ll let him explain.” He knew the rules, which included barely saying anything when they first stepped into the TARDIS, and not saying anything he didn’t have to any time after that. Something about tearing a whole in the very fabric of reality or something.

Easier really to just keep quiet and admire the changes to the room, subtle though they were.

“None of that is important,” Sherlock declared. “What is important is you stopping in my back garden. But 21st Century London is hardly exciting, is it?”

Without warning, he grabbed the nearest lever and pulled, engaging the TARDIS’ engines. The Doctor, Sherlock knew, though he didn’t readily show it, was indeed properly startled along with his companion.

By John’s count, they were gone three days this time – not their longest trip through the vortex, but one of the more explosive ones, for sure. John didn’t want to know how Sherlock always knew when and where to find something particularly dangerous, but he had certainly outdone himself this time.

As they stumbled back out of the TARDIS and into the garden, John waved Sherlock ahead.

“I’m going to run to the shop,” he said, looking at a cut on the back of his hand. Hopefully, he didn’t look too conspicuously like he’d just stopped an invading race of plant-people from committing genocide. “Do you want anything?”

Sherlock shook his head as he opened the door to the house. John was hardly able to be surprised that his friend would have been as worn out as he seemed to be, so he let Sherlock go in on his own and took a shortcut over a fence to the newsagent’s down the road.

When he returned, it was to find a familiar black car waiting outside on the street. He opened the front door to the house, not entirely ready to prevent another war so soon. He was still formulating his strategy when he heard voices coming from upstairs; not the usual sort of voices with harsh tones and clipped words he was used to when Mycroft paid them a visit, but what sounded suspiciously like crying.

Well. That was new.

He reached the landing to find the door to 221b open and Sherlock, pyjama-clad, with his face buried in Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Sherlock, you knew this was coming,” Mycroft said in a tone that sounded wrong coming from him.

He made a quick motion for John to put his shopping away before any of it went off. Something about it alerted Sherlock to the new presence in the room, and he sat up quickly, stiffening his posture and pushing his hair from his face. Sherlock appeared to be quickly pulling himself together, affecting a persona John had often seen but never believed.

“All right?” John asked cautiously.

“Fine,” said Sherlock, though the heaviness of his voice betrayed him.

John had only seen Sherlock behave like this once before, several years earlier when his mother had died.

The revelation hit John suddenly, and he wondered why he’d never seen it before. Looking at him now, it was obvious. Although John couldn’t quite work out how, he knew, to a point, what had just happened. Not knowing what else to do, he left Mycroft and Sherlock alone and put the kettle on.

  
—

They had just come off of a two-day-long chase when they stumbled upon the blue box by chance. It sat tucked up under an archway between two buildings, looking rather inconspicuous for a change. Not that it mattered; the thing could – and had – park itself in front of Buckingham Palace and no-one would bat an eye at it.

They were both tired, worn down and a bit wet from their chase of the suspect, and the last thing they needed was to go off gallivanting with one of Sherlock’s strange friends. Which is exactly why Sherlock unlocked the door and let them both in. The console room was empty and dim, and Sherlock helped himself to the controls.

“Where’s he gone off to?” he asked as he looked up at the screen. He frowned at it and tilted the angle slightly. “What do you mean, ‘out’? Fat lot of help you are.”

John walked round to see what the screen had said to him, but it must have changed by the time he got there, because he couldn’t make heads or tails of the geometry lesson being displayed.

“Daft old man could be anywhere,” Sherlock said after a moment.

He grabbed one of the post-it notes by the bell and scribbled something on it before slapping it on the centre of the screen.

“Nothing for it but to wait. He could be anywhere.” He stifled a yawn and waved his hand vaguely in John’s direction. “Go find yourself a bedroom. There’s bound to be one somewhere.”

John started toward the stairs, stopping only when he realised that Sherlock was still fiddling with the console.

“What about you?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’ll turn up.”

John shook his head at the lack of sense his friend was making and headed up the stairs to find a bedroom. The TARDIS seemed to be in a good mood, and one made itself readily known, which John quickly fell asleep in without looking at anything in it.

He was awoken much more quickly than he’d wanted by someone poking him in the face with a pool cue. Without thought, John reached for it and pulled it away. When his eyes finally opened, he found himself being stared at by a boy who couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

“Who are you?” he asked with an accent that smacked of South London.

John was too tired for this. “Who are _you_?” he shot back.

The boy stalled for just a moment. “I asked you first.”

“And I took your stick,” John reminded him.

It occurred to him that whoever the lad was, it was almost certainly his room John had been given to fall asleep in. He slowly got to his feet and tossed the cue down onto the bed.

“Sorry. I’m John,” he said through a groan as he stretched his back. “Do you know where my friend is?”

“Yeah, he’s down there, arguing with Him,” the boy said, pointing out the door. “Er. Mickey, by the way. Mickey Smith. How’d you two get in here, anyway?”

John offered Mickey one of his friendly smiles as he made his way back down to the console room. “The Doctor shows up sometimes. Sherlock has a key so we can get in.”

Mickey started to nod, but cut himself short. “Sherlock?” he asked.

“Daft name, I know,” John agreed. “His parents were sadists, I think. Or mental. I haven’t decided.”

The two of them shared a laugh as they made their way to the console room, where Sherlock and the Doctor were indeed arguing over something. Ice cream, by the sound of it. Specifically, the Doctor wanted to go get some, and Sherlock thought the idea boring.

“No, it’s too cold. It does things,” Sherlock said as he waved his hand vaguely near his head.

“Well, that’s the point of it,” insisted the Doctor.

Sherlock seemed to have known what was going to come next, prompting him to quickly step away from the argument. “And going somewhere hot will not make it any better. It will just make it sticky.”

John blinked at this and turned to Mickey. “How long’s this been going on?” he asked.

“Two hours,” replied Mickey. “Two hours these two have been going at it. You’d think the universe’s fate determined whether or not we go for ice cream.”

John laughed. Knowing those two, it did. The way Sherlock continued to rant only solidified this theory. The Doctor, with the sort of skill that comes with having known Sherlock Holmes for quite some time, ignored him.

“Do you know the best place for a banana split?” he asked, already programming something into the console. “The sun-baked planes of Kakrafoon. There’s a little stand just outside a concert arena that does the _best_ banana splits. Of course, you have to get there before the climate shift.”

Sherlock threw his hands into the air and rolled his eyes rather impressively, John thought.

“I am not going to Kakrafoon,” he insisted. “You wretched old man.”

They went to Kakrafoon. It wasn’t, as Sherlock had insisted it would be, entirely terrible. Sure, the endless red desert was just this side of unbearable, but the Doctor was right. It was perfect banana split weather, and the little stand made perfect banana splits.

Of course, leave it up to Sherlock bloody Holmes to work out that the proprietor of said stand was moonlighting as Doughle runner, whatever the hell a Doughle was. John never did find out, although stopping him from running the poor Doughles was the perfect post-banana split adventure.

  
—

John wasn’t sure whether he loved or hated the really dangerous cases. He loved them for his own reasons, needing some sort of affirmation that he was still alive, even after living with the world’s only consulting detective for two years. He hated them because even at his best, the world’s only consulting detective was a complete moron. This time, the moron had managed to break his wrist and concuss himself. It was in this state, a week later, that Sherlock was upside-down on the sofa whilst John busied himself with writing up the case.

“Do you know, all my life, I’d never broken a bone before now,” Sherlock said, trying to work the fingers of his functioning hand under the cast. “I didn’t think I could.”

John considered this just long enough to realise the stupidity of the sentiment.

“Of course you could,” he said, implying the ‘you idiot’ with his tone of voice. “And sit up before you make yourself worse.” 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock grumbled. He reached for a biro and used it to vigorously scratch at his arm beneath the cast.

John watched this, and rather than trying to stop the behaviour, only rolled his eyes. “How many different colours are they going to find on your arm when you get that taken off?”

Sherlock shrugged dramatically, which had an odd effect with him being positioned as he was.

“How long before I can take it off?” he asked.

John didn’t want to tell him, because knowing Sherlock, he’d remove it himself two weeks before the date. “You’ve seriously never broken a bone?” he asked instead.

“Nope.” Sherlock gave up on the pen and started searching for something else to suit his purposes.

It was then that John realised a rather embarrassing gap in his knowledge about his flatmate. “How old are you?”

Another dramatic shrug from Sherlock. “I don’t know. What’s a good age?”

John sputtered. “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? How can you not know?”

“Thirty-seven?” asked Sherlock. “Is that a good age? Mycroft would know for certain, but I think I’ll go with that.”

“I’m not phoning Mycroft,” John declared simply. “He’ll make us do something. And you’re not doing anything in your condition.”

Sherlock snorted as he watched John get up and begin to hunt down his wallet. In it, John found no fewer than five different IDs, all with different birthdates, and some with different names.

“Do people really believe John Smith as a name?” he asked.

“You’d be surprised.”

Finally, Sherlock righted himself and got to his feet to peer out the window. For a few moments, he seemed to just be looking, rather than seeing, but a sharp start in his posture indicated a change in action. Before he could reach for his coat, John grabbed it and pointed at the sofa.

“No,” he said. “You’re meant to be getting better.”

Sherlock frowned, and after a moment’s consideration, he quickly opened the window and threw an old take-away carton out of it.

“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you ever phone anymore?” he shouted.

John was on the point of trying to stop Sherlock from causing any further problems, but was stopped when he heard shouting from outside. Well, apparently whoever Sherlock had just assaulted with old Chinese could take care of themselves. That was good to know. Up until Sherlock started shouting again.

“I’m being held prisoner in my own flat!” he called down.

Before John could remedy the situation, he hear the front door unlock and heavy footsteps on the stairs. The man who entered, John recognised, but he had a new companion with him.

“That was too easy,” the Doctor said. He turned to his companion. “Wasn’t that too easy? Why was that too easy?”

John sighed.

“He was hit by a car,” he explained. “He’s not going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

The Doctor looked at Sherlock, who at that moment was flopping all over the sofa, preparing at any moment to declare how positively bored he was. Naturally, the Doctor picked up on this.

“Blimey, that must be boring,” he said.

Sherlock glared at him, but the Doctor didn’t seem to notice.

“I had to stay in bed once for a few days during Christmas. During an alien invasion, no less. So at least I wasn’t too bored. Did you know that some races can actually _die_ of boredom?”

Sherlock glared at him even harder. “Can _you_?” he asked.

The Doctor shrugged. “Dunno. Never been too keen to try it.”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘idiot,’ but no-one seemed to notice. Instead, John put down Sherlock’s coat and moved into the kitchen.

“Tea, anyone?” he asked. “You… drink tea, right?”

The Doctor made himself at home in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “Tea would be lovely, thanks,” he said. “Not so often I get to do this; have a quiet evening in with tea. Do you have any biscuits?”

Sherlock ignored his rambling as he often did, turning his attention instead to the woman inspecting his flat. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Covered in orange chicken,” she said. “But you can call me Martha.”

“So sorry about that,” John said, rushing out from the kitchen. He handed her a cup of tea and a damp flannel before handing off the second cup to the Doctor. “Here. There’s a bathroom upstairs if you need it. But I have a take-away waiting for us. I’ll be right back.”

Martha smiled gracefully and used the flannel to clean the sleeve of her coat. “Hope you got enough for four. I’m starving.”

“He never eats it anyway,” John said, pointing at Sherlock. “You can have his.”

Before anymoreleftover Chinese could be thrown in his direction, John grabbed his coat and left the flat.

“Martha, a friend of mine,” the Doctor said with an odd smile. “Sherlock Holmes. And Doctor John Watson, who just left.”

“Seriously?” she asked, something about what the Doctor had just said completely unbelievable.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her reaction. “Yes, seriously. My father likes to think himself rather clever sometimes.”

Martha laughed. “And you disagree?”

Sherlock turned to study her in earnest, taking in as much of her as he could. “I’m sure you would as well,” he said finally.

Martha laughed and muscled a bit of room on the sofa from Sherlock. “What’s it like, then? Being named after him?”

The Doctor laughed. “Where do you think he got the idea for the stories?” he asked.

“Seriously?” Martha repeated. “You’re really… him? Does your friend know that he’s a fictional character as well?”

“No,” Sherlock said simply.

“He has a permanent blind spot to it,” the Doctor explained. “It’s like the universe protects itself from a paradox simply by not letting the person in question ever know about it.”

“So, they’re one of those, what do you call them?” asked Martha.

“Fixed point,” Sherlock said boredly. “It was always going to happen this way, even with _his_ meddling. He just made it complicated.”

“Is that what you do, then?” asked Martha. “Save some lives and annoy others?”

“Well…” The Doctor scratched his head and became suddenly very interested in the bat above the fireplace.

Martha laughed at the pair of them. “You’re mad,” she said. “Both of you; do you know that?”

Sherlock ignored her and reached for the biro again to try to get at the constant itch under his cast.

  
—

It was simple chance that they were in Cardiff, just closing off a case, when they happened upon the blue box standing in tall and proud by the bay. But despite its presence in broad daylight, John mightn’t have even noticed it if he hadn’t seen it before.

“Sherlock,” he said as they came into sight of the TARDIS. “It’s him. The man in the box, isn’t it?” he asked. “What’s he doing here?”

“Refuelling,” Sherlock answered simply. Then his face broke into a wide grin. “Shall we go say hello?”

Before John could answer, Sherlock was running toward the TARDIS at full speed, making it nigh on impossible for John to keep up. Sherlock stopped at the door, still grinning at it as he pulled out his keys to unlock the door. He made quick work of it, and within seconds he was standing inside the TARDIS wearing an odd frown.

John caught up with him quickly enough, frowning at the state of the TARDIS. Something was definitely off about it, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was. It wasn’t until he stepped inside that he realised everything was different – including the man driving it.

“Sherlock,” John said. “That’s not him. Is it?”

Sherlock frowned at the console room. “It is,” he said. “He’s just different now.”

“You mean he can just change his face?” John asked quietly, wondering if he was breaking some sort of taboo in even mentioning it.

“He does that sometimes,” said Sherlock. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Then how do you know it’s him?”

“I just do. What I’d like to know is why you’ve changed the desktop theme,” Sherlock complained loudly before he was able to catch himself. “Or, will have done. I prefer the other one.”

“Oh, just great,” said the woman on one of the benches by the centre console. “Another streak of nothing. I didn’t know you came in pairs.”

The Doctor finally looked up at them, his eyes dark and cold, pulling Sherlock’s attention away from the latest companion in the TARDIS.

“Who are you to me? Really.” he asked darkly. “And how do you keep getting in here?”

“I have a key,” Sherlock said with a ridiculous amount of false cheer.

“How?” demanded the Doctor.

“You gave it to me.” Sherlock jingled his keys lightly before putting them back in his pocket.

“Then you can see yourself out with it.”

Without another word, the Doctor turned and walked out of the console room through one of the TARDIS’ many corridors. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock grumbled to himself and followed after.

“Sorry, what was that all about?” asked John, feeling more out-of-place than he had in his life.

The Doctor’s ginger-haired companion sighed deeply and sunk further into the bench she was occupying.

“He lost someone today,” she said. “Or found her. He won’t talk to me about it. Something about _spoilers_ was all I was able to get from it.”

Sherlock slowly stepped back into the console room, having apparently forgotten all about the Doctor.

“Say that again,” he said.

“Which bit?” asked the woman.

Sherlock shook his head. “Archaeologist?” he asked quickly. “Completely mad. Did you get her name?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” she said eagerly, before her expression suddenly dropped. “Oh. Did you… know her too? Like, properly know her?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and the colour drained from his face as he spun back round to face the way he came.

“D… Doctor!” he shouted as he ran down the corridor.

John stood awkwardly with his hands behind his back, watching the entire scene.

“Well,” he said. “I think I’m just going to…”

He nodded toward the door, hoping to find an easy excuse for leaving that didn’t point out that he had absolutely no idea what had just happened. It occurred to him, as he grew more uncomfortable by the second, that the Doctor’s companion was in the same situation as he.

“Drinks?” he offered. He didn’t need to explain anything, since she’d seen the whole thing as well.

“Not with a stranger,” the woman said. “You could be anybody.”

John considered that and nodded. “John Watson,” he introduced. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it,” she said.

John smiled and tilted his head slightly. “And now that would make you the stranger, I think. I might have to retract my offer, now.”

She regarded him once more before finally shrugging and getting to her feet. “All right,” she agreed as she grabbed her handbag. “But no funny business.”

John’s smile never waned. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

Several hours later, he found himself back in the TARDIS with Donna, as he later found out she was called. They were both hanging off of one another giggling, the afternoon’s encounter between their respective companions forgotten.

John was feeling bold, and a bit tipsy, but before he was able to act on either of them Sherlock stomped back into the console room.

“Good. You’re back. We’re leaving,” he declared sharply.

He grabbed hold of John’s jacket as he made his way to the door, pulling the man along with him.

“Sorry,” John said to Donna as he was led away. “Next time?”

“You still owe me for that darts match, too!” Donna called after him.

Before John was able to respond, Sherlock had all but dragged him outside and slammed the door behind them.

“What was that all about?” John demanded, trying to shake Sherlock off him. “Let go of me!”

Sherlock released his grip but didn’t stop walking toward the main road.

“What, did you two have a falling out?” asked John. “Talk to me, Sherlock.”

When Sherlock finally turned to face him, John realised he didn’t look angry at all. In fact, he looked like he’d just spent the last several hours being quite a different sort of upset altogether.

“We don’t meet in the right order,” he said after a deep sigh. “Every time I see him, he gets a bit younger, but from his perspective, I’m the one going backwards. My mother is… _was_ the same way.”

John nodded. “That’s how you know him, then?” he ventured. “I had wondered.”

Sherlock nodded. “My mum travelled with him, yes. I would seem as though he just met her. For the first time.” He paused for a long moment, and John could see him struggling to keep himself together. “Which, I’ve been told, is the last anyone had ever seen her alive.”

John stopped in his tracks. “Good god, Sherlock,” he said. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone—”

Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. He looked down the street with a vacant expression. After a moment, he shook his head and hailed a cab.

“Home,” he declared.

John nodded as he waited for Sherlock to climb inside the car. “Yeah,” he said, following his friend in. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  
—

In hindsight, John should have realised that his duties as new flat mate would have also involved duties as housekeeper. And cook. And launderer. And private EMT. But mostly housekeeper. Perhaps it was optimism on his part, but he had managed to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would start helping out around the flat. It was a vain hope, John knew, but one he’d hold onto as long as he could.

It was about two months after the hectic day with the pink lady and mad cab drivers that John had finally tired of the mess and took to the flat with a bin bag. He made quick work of the sitting room, and after a brief moment of wondering if he was overstepping any bounds, moved onto his flatmate’s bedroom.

How had so little time passed since their arrival at Baker Street? The only explanation was that Sherlock had simply managed to move his entire bedroom, mess and all. John wasn’t sure what, in all of the clutter should be kept or binned, but he was fairly sure that most of the outright trash was trash. He started to go through the mess, picking up take-away cartons and empty cigarette and nicotine patch boxes, and biscuit packages. He’d only made small progress in the grand scheme that was the mess masquerading as a bedroom when he accidentally knocked into a precariously-perched box, spilling its contents. As John began to sift through the addition to the mess, it became clear that the box was the sort that started off in a teenager’s bedroom and only became more packed and cluttered over time. But Sherlock’s box of assorted treasures didn’t make any sense to John’s eyes. The usual collection of useless items seemed to be a bit more than that – it seemed to mostly be bits of scrap metal and electronics that were well and truly useless. John found six identical metal, mechanical rods, all broken in their own special way, though most of it, he couldn’t identify.

What surprised him most, however, was the photograph. It showed a younger Sherlock (though how much younger, John couldn’t tell. The man looked like a twelve-year-old as it was) with his arm around a man in tweed and a bowtie. Not exactly the sort of person he’d expected Sherlock to be friends with. But that was exactly the sort of person Sherlock was friends with, if the smiles they wore – both equally ridiculous – were anything to go by.

This was more than just a junk box, John realised. It was something deeply personal and John had invaded an area of Sherlock’s life he was never meant to see. He carefully returned everything to the box and left the room, leaving Sherlock to clean up his own mess.

The last thing John ever expected to find upon arriving home after a day of trying to teach Sherlock the intricacies of basic food shopping was a very large blue box taking up half the sitting room. Even more surprising was the man in tweed lounging comfortably by the fire with a newspaper and a cup of tea.

Upon seeing him in the flat, Sherlock grinned widely and forgot about the shopping at once.

“What is it?” he asked with the same glee reserved for serial killers and severed heads.

The man in tweed carefully folded his newspaper and placed it on the table next to him. “Rumours,” he started conspiratorially, “of villagers going missing on the full moon.”

“Werewolves?” asked Sherlock, sounding like he actually believed in such thing.

“No, then you’d at least find… bits.” The man wrinkled his nose.

Before John could ask what the hell was going on, the front door opened and a Scottish voice called up the stairs.

“Doctor! I got the stuff. Are they here yet?”

“Ah! Amy!” the supposed doctor said as he jumped to his feet. “You’re just in time!”

He met at the door and pulled the carrier bag from her hands and dug through its contents. With a heavy frown, he pulled out a small plastic tub.

“What’s this?” he demanded. “I said butter. This is margarine. It’s no good.”

Amy frowned back at him. “Same thing,” she argued.

“No it isn’t,” said the Doctor. “One’s white and comes from a cow, and the other’s yellow and goes all weird if you leave it out too long.”

He threw it over his shoulder, managing to fling it across the flat and straight out an open window. John realised that someone really ought to have told him off for that, but it wouldn’t be him, because he was still busy trying to work out just what he was witnessing. He decided finally to just take the easy route and ask.

“Sherlock?” he asked. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Sherlock looked at him as though he’d been positively offended by the question.

“This is the Doctor. He’s a… friend,” said Sherlock, sounding rather like he had to think of an answer.

“A friend. Right,” said John. “And what’s he doing here, exactly?”

“You heard him explain that,” Sherlock said.

He cast a quick glance to the Doctor, and after being waved on encouragingly, Sherlock opened the door to the box and stood aside. Cautiously, John stepped forward to peer inside, finding himself decidedly not amused by what he found inside.

“Sherlock,” John said tiredly. “I don’t know how, but…”

He was interrupted by Sherlock grabbing him by the arm and pushing him into the box. The fact that it was considerably larger than their flat on the inside hadn’t escaped him, but he wasn’t entirely certain that this wasn’t some sort of elaborate practical joke.

“So, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” said the girl called Amy as she followed the two of them in. She focused on John. “Bit shorter than I expected.”

“Oi!” shot John.

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t listening anyway. Her attention was already on Sherlock. “You’re just the way I imagined, though.”

“Amy,” the Doctor warned from behind her.

He brought in the carrier bag that both she and John had carried into the flat, still finding items he didn’t want and throwing them aside.

“So,” he declared finally. “We’re all here. Who wants to go solve a mystery?”

  
—

The blue Police Box stood tucked up against the side of the building, imposing and invisible all at once. Sherlock grinned widely at it, running his hand along the wood next to the door. He could feel her slight vibration from the engines; a sign of life and a hint of adventure.

He quickly pulled his key from his pocket, unlocking the door and slipping inside the console room. After circling the centre console once, Sherlock reached for the main screen and angled it to be able to read it.

“What have you been up to lately?” he asked calmly as he flipped several switches and played with a few dials.

Somewhere behind him, someone nervously cleared their throat.

“Uhm… I’m not really sure you should be doing that.”

Sherlock turned round to see a young man standing nearby, looking as though he couldn’t decide whether to stay or run for help.

“Oh, we’re old friends,” Sherlock assured him. “Does he still fly her with the parking brakes on?”

He continued to flip switches and fiddle with dials until finally – it had certainly taken the man long enough – he heard the familiar sound of ratty old boots on the stairs.

“Rory! Who’s messing with my—Oh.”

Sherlock grinned up at the Doctor for the briefest moment that it took him to process what exactly had been said. He turned sharply on Rory looked at him properly.

“Rory Pond,” he said, planting his hands on Rory’s shoulders and spinning him round.

Even while being manhandled, Rory still managed to point vaguely in Sherlock’s direction and gape.

“Er… Williams,” Rory corrected.

“No, I’m quite sure it’s Pond,” Sherlock said simply.

He returned his attention to the Doctor, allowing himself to be pulled into a rather friendly embrace. “Isn’t John with you today?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked. He didn’t know any John, but apparently he should be on the lookout for someone called that.

“I don’t know. Where’s Mummy?” Sherlock asked, looking around the console room. “Is she here?”

The Doctor pulled away, regarding Sherlock with an all too familiar look of completely confusion.

“Mummy?” he asked, tilting his head to one side slightly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. “Never mind. Not important.”

Trying to hide the hurt that was no doubt showing on his face, Sherlock turned back around to Rory and offered him his overly friendly smile.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” he said, offering his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Rory pointed at him and gaped rather impressively. “Sherlock… Holmes?” he asked. “As in, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Who’s Mummy?” asked the Doctor with a bit more force.

Sherlock did as he’d been instructed to do and didn’t answer. He’d known this day was coming, but he’d always thought it would happen later. Instead, he’d barely been out on his own and already the time lines had drifted too far apart.

“Sherlock,” said the Doctor carefully. “There’s something you’ve never answered for me. How do you know how to fly the TARDIS?”

He hesitated for just a moment before answering, not entirely sure if it was information he was allowed to share.

“Mum taught me,” he said. “She didn’t trust you to do it because you’d just teach me how to crash.”

He cringed as he waited for the Doctor to work everything out, of which he made fairly short work. The response was simple and swift, and before Sherlock knew what to do, he was pulled into a heavy embrace.

“I have a son,” the Doctor said, a hint of laughter on the edge of his voice.

“Two,” said Sherlock, not able to bring himself to hug back. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you that.”

The Doctor laughed in earnest and hugged just a little tighter.

“Hang on. Not to spoil the moment,” Rory said suddenly. “But if he’s your son, how come he’s called Sherlock Holmes? As in, you know. Sherlock Holmes?”

The Doctor finally stepped back and regarded Rory with a slight air of annoyance. “He’s my son, apparently,” he said. “I can call him whatever I want.”

Suddenly, he clapped his hands over his mouth and hissed sharply.

“I suppose I have to call him that, won’t I?” he asked. “Mycroft, too. Or else what would I have told Artie?”

“Something more sensible?” asked Sherlock, having already heard this story from his mother.

“What are you talking about?” asked the Doctor. “Sherlock’s a great name. “It… okay, it doesn’t really suit you at all, actually, but it’s still great.”

Sherlock frowned, wondering if his father was always going to be this daft, or if it was just a one-time occasion. He ignored the problem and took the TARDIS controls. As Sherlock dialled in the coordinates, the Doctor crowded in on his space and tried to assist, really only managing to get in the way.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Anywhere with ice cream.” Sherlock declared. “I think you owe me some right now.”

  
—

Explosions ringing out through the TARDIS had never been uncommon. Explosions ringing out whilst the TARDIS was parked and on standby were slightly less common, but not entirely unheard of.

Explosions in the library weren’t totally unheard of, and always had the same source.

River pushed through the large doors and without a moment’s hesitation, sprayed the immediate area down with a very large fire extinguisher. Sherlock wailed loudly as he tried to duck out of the way of the foam being sprayed at him, but was trapped by the experiment gone badly wrong behind him.

“What in the name of sanity are you doing in here?” River demanded as she put the extinguisher down.

“I was bored,” Sherlock said. He tried to clean his face with his hands, but only wound up moving the mess around.

River sighed as she pulled him close, using her shirt to get the foam off of his face. “There are better places than a library, which is full of flammable books, for your experiments,” she told him. “One of these days, you’re going to break something and he won’t know that you make a habit of doing it. And you know what your father’s like when he gets angry.”

Sherlock turned his gaze to the floor. “Sorry, Mum,” he said. “But I’m bored. Why can’t I go out there with you? Mycroft has Torchwood; I’ve got nothing.”

“You’ve got wanted posters of yourself all over Jaglan Beta,” River told him. “Which is why you’re staying put. We can’t be chasing after you all the time.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “I’m still bored, though.”

“So clean up this mess,” River told him. “It’s big enough that it should keep you busy for a few hours.”

“You made most of it,” Sherlock argued.

“Only because I was stopping you from burning everything down.” She kissed him on his forehead. “Clean this up. Then we’ll go have supper with Mycroft.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. He kicked at a broken bottle on the floor as he watched River leave.

  



End file.
